


Breath and Doom

by thatsrightdollface



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: (mostly Friendsim but I allude to all those things so -- just so's you're aware~), :o), Character Study, Gen, Hiveswap Act 2 spoilers, Hiveswap: Friendsim, Pesterquest, Spoilers, The Homestuck Epilogues, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: “We’re all the punchline to a joke that they won’t let us in on —”  — “Parasites,” Ugly Casanova
Relationships: Baizli Soleil & Barzum Soleil
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Breath and Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!!! I hope you enjoy this -- I'm so sorry for any and all mistakes I might've made!!! 
> 
> More things in the notes underneath!!!
> 
> *Edit -- Fixed Barzum's mask!!! Potential symbolism = still fun to write about, but different~

Baizli Soleil had been carried away by that sing-song deathly merry-go-round, lifted back to his rightful hilarious eternity, before he learned what role he might have played in the Game. You know, if he and Barzum — the other half of his soul, hatched from the same egg, speaking with one spinning whimsical strung-together-like-bones-under-the-skin voice — had actually been meant to play the Game all of this was building to. Alternia, that is. Reality. The story they were living’d been made for the Game that built and culled universes both. Barzum and Baizli Soleil were a giggling afterthought. They were side characters in a prequel spin-off; it was all in good fun. Baizli learned a lot about it, once he climbed up onto one of those eyeless, clown-nosed hoofbeasts and waved a shaky goodbye to his lost body down below. It was so strange, so wrong, moving without shadowing the other half of his soul, or being shadowed his own self. Baizli could hear Barzum screaming, as if from far away. She had never been “far away” before. 

Even as he thought, “I need to go to her,” which was one and the same as “I need to go back to myself,” Baizli felt himself reaching for the merry-go-round. That’s how the story went, after all: he died, now. It was in the script. When the One True Pen told a joke, the clowns _always_ got the punchline. Or... they tried to. Baizli’s eyes burned with frustrated, furious tears, though, to tell the truth of it. The train blurred into a stinging sticky-sweet purple haze, as he was spun off and away. Couldn’t somebody do _anything_ to help Barzum stop screaming? She was in pain, just like Baizli’d been before the foretold clownish afterlife reached for him. He had been shoved by that funny little lowblood, burning with rage; he had been gutted by the spike down on the clown car’s train path. Didn’t even get time for one last prayer, one last rattling nightmare scream the lowblood might dream about for sweeps down the line, one last apology ‘cause now Barzum — 

‘Cause now Barzum would always be incomplete, until she could join him, here. Would she feel what it was like for a troll body to rot away, or dry up to a flaking husk in the sun? Barzum was screaming for the both of them. One half of a double act, performing half the show. What else could she do? 

Baizli was alone in his head — it was an awful, angry place, rattling with unfinished sentences. He swung his legs... he was riding the divine merry-go-round hoofbeast sidesaddle... and squished his hand around a little in the gaping wound through his middle. Neat: since Barzum and Baizli had been pretty expert escape artists/contortionists, he could stick his whole arm clean through, and waggle his fingers out the other side of himself where bits of his spine used to be. Barzum would’ve appreciated that. Baizli could feel her internal chuckling, like an echo. No. No, no, no — she was probably still screaming, wasn’t she? She hadn't been the one wearing the wailing tragedy mask, but maybe carrying that smile around had been a grim kind of foreshadowing neither of them realized when they got themselves dressed. She was the one who'd lived, after all. The One True Pen was probably off somewhere, snickering. Jokes on jokes on jokes. 

Baizli didn’t even know the half of it (get it? Half? He’s a half of a soul, isn’t he?) yet, though. He watched the winged mannequins sway above him on the merry-go-round, creaking. When the carnival clown church paradise sprawled out beneath him, Baizli raised his eyebrows. Smiled. He couldn’t help but smile. It was everything he and Barzum had ever thought it would be; of course it was. The Mirthful Messiahs would give them nothing less, considering they’d played their parts so well. They could slip off backstage, now.

Applause. Curtains. 

Encore?

Who knows. Baizli knew Alternia’s Heiresses could commune with the Dark Carnival, if they reached out and gave it a try. Maybe there was something else in the works, here. Jokes on jokes on jokes, right?

There were a whole history’s worth of clowns milling around that carnival, building their monuments to the Messiahs, reciting holy slam poetry, riding shrieking roller-coasters that could circle Alternia again and again and again. The air was like Faygo, sparkling and sugary — Tents and Mirth as far as Baizli could fathom. There were places in this carnival meant for judgement, and places meant for future rambling horrific prophesies, and places for rest. Baizli climbed off the merry-go-round — the rest of the riders were stiff, smiling models, just like he’d read about in holy rhyming picture books ever since he was practically a grub — and stepped out into the broken corner of Time that was death.

It took a little while for Baizli to find the carnival booth with some Skaian clouds trapped in a crystal ball — the booth where he sat down to watch what he and Barzum would’ve been like, if they’d been hatched to play the Game. Before that, he cracked open a Faygo with some clowns that died when Alternia was young, during the Summoner’s rebellion. They ruffled his hair; they slipped some bone-carved game tokens with the Messiahs’ faces on them into his claws, rattling around in a checkerboard sack, tied with twirly gift-wrapped ribbon. They said, “You’re gonna like it here, kid. That’s in the script, too. A thousand sweeps’re gonna feel like no time at all.”

That was probably true. 

Or, that might’ve been true, if Baizli hadn’t been missing half his soul. 

He couldn’t still hear Barzum screaming, could he? That was impossible. 

By the time Baizli found the booth with Skaian clouds trapped in a crystal ball, he had won Barzum an enormous plushie that looked sort of like their lusus — carnival games that involved beheading had always been his specialty — though he knew it would probably take him ages and ages to get it to her. So strange, winning a prize to give to yourself later! Baizli hadn’t wanted to think too long about how he’d never see his Messiahs-blessed lusus again. He’d hurried away; bought a huge lollipop meant to look like an enchanted Juju; come here, dragging his feet in their soft curled shoes, looking over his shoulder every now and then like the emptiness there was watching him. Barzum should’ve been at his side, nudging his shoulder, whispering in his thoughts. 

Baizli gave the clown who had caught some Skaian clouds in a crystal ball a couple of his tokens, and asked what they could show him. Could they show him Barzum? How was she?

“Oh. Oh, I’ve got something better for _you_ ,” said the clown who had wrestled some Skaian clouds right out of the sky. “Do you want in on some more of the joke?”

“Yes,” said Baizli. He knew he was supposed to answer _yes_ , even though his stomach was all somersaults, now. There weren’t any stars, any constellations in this place. There were only acrobats above him. The soil beneath all of their collective laughing feet couldn’t grow anything, either: the ground was rubbery, like an enormous honk-horn no one was strong enough to... you know... successfully _honk_. 

“Attaboy,” said the clown, and then stolen clouds gathered beneath their hands and Baizli saw. He saw the Game, in another world; he saw a Universe Frog trying to squirm out of some tealblood’s hands; he saw himself and Barzum as Heroes of Breath and Doom. 

It took a minute for the punchline to hit him. He was Doom, and he had been written into this world to die; Baizli was Breath, and she kept on breathing without him. She was learning to breathe alone, without half of herself, for the first time probably right this second. 

Baizli’s laughter choked into sobbing, bent over himself at the carnival booth. Some jokes are like that; you can’t have one without the other. The Messiahs only know. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Special thanks to Ceabu/Bujor -- I've had so much fun talking about Barzum and Baizli's tragedy with you!!! (Though of course.... poor Barzum and Baizli...........)  
> 2\. This is the second time I've quoted this same Ugly Casanova song in a fic summary lately/written something with this song in mind............ I must really like this song!!!  
> 3\. So, you know the tealblood who's trying to deal with the Universe Frog, here??? That's Tagora. I saw he's a Space player, and he's one of my favorites, so he's in the Soleils' imaginary session. >:D  
> 4\. Has anybody brought this foreshadowing connection up yet??? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!! I hope you're staying safe and having a wonderful day.


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